


here, beneath my lungs

by lizstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, pre-emptive fix it fic, this is all i want i'm sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:47:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26761600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizstiel/pseuds/lizstiel
Summary: this a pre-emptive fix it fic for the series finale, written before the actual series finale (it's so close though, y'all. i'm not ready.) so this assuming Cas dies in 15x18 and doesn't come back, and that Jack/Sam/Dean defeat Chuck. the rest is just....fluff. I am old and tired and need these men to be happy so that I can rest, thank you. title is from the song Welcome Home, Son by Radical Face.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Dean/Cas
Comments: 9
Kudos: 59





	here, beneath my lungs

_ “When does a war end? _ _  
_ _ When can I say your name and have it mean _ _  
_ _ only your name and not what you left behind?” _ _  
_ \-- Ocean Vuong __ , On Earth We Are Briefly Gorgeous  
  


He’s unsure if it’s the distant roll of thunder, or the ache in his knee that wakes him up, but his eyes snap open all the same. For a moment he just lies under the covers and stares at the ceiling, watching lightning paint the shadows of tree branches across his room in flickering bursts. 

The seconds pass: one, two, three, four -- the thunder answers. Dean listens to the sound of air rattling through him, in and out, here and gone. He rubs his knee. The rain pelts against his window in a steady, endless rhythm.

_ Ten years tomorrow,  _ a voice in the back of his head says.  _ It’s been ten years. _

A bright flash -- one, two, three, four, five, six -- the storm moves away.

He closes his eyes and hopes for sleep.

//

Sammy is up first thing in the morning making breakfast.

All of their favorites: pancakes, waffles, extra greasy bacon for Dean, eggs of every kind -- the works. Claire and Jack descend upon the breakfast table like ravenous dogs, not having eaten much on their drive to Kansas.

It used to be that a whole host of them would come to Sam and Dean’s quiet farm around this time of year, with beer and food, and enough warmth to ease Dean’s aching bones -- but ten years is a long time, and the journey has gotten too much for a lot of them. Jody calls them from Sioux Falls, and Donna chimes in gleefully from somewhere in the background. Nameless hunters drop them voicemails and texts, an odd letter here and there -  _ hey thanks for killing God and saving our universe,  _ so on and so forth.

“We just wanted to get here,” Claire explains through a mouthful of scrambled eggs. “Jack was pretty impatient.” Jack does nothing to deny or confirm her claim, too busy inhaling a sausage at frightening speeds.

By the time Dean makes it downstairs, Sam is just finishing putting everything out on the table. He smiles at his brother from across the room and gestures vaguely to the counter. “Haven’t had a chance to make coffee yet, do you mind?”

Dean nods and shuffles over to the coffee maker, moving slower than usual in his beat up house slippers. He likes this part of the morning though, how routine it feels. Fill the pot with water, dump it in the back, dig out a filter from the cabinet over his head. Opening up the coffee tin on an inhale, the smell of it hitting him in one big wave. The monotony of it is such a comforting and familiar thing. It settles warm and quiet somewhere between his ribs.

“Who wants a cup?” He asks the room. Jack and Claire both decline, and Sam just gives him a small affirmative wave without looking up from his plate. Dean reaches for Sam’s favorite mug, one that Jack had found at a drugstore a few years back. The handle is shaped like a jumping fish, and in big letters on the front it reads -- ‘Reel Good Dad.’

He grabs another mug for himself, a white and red number they’d salvaged from the bunker, and without really thinking about it, starts to reach for a third. The ugly yellow one in the back with the chip in the rim. He stops short when he realizes what he’s doing, fingers just brushing the ceramic handle.

_ It’s been ten years _ , the voice in the back of his head tells him sternly, though not unkindly.  _ He’s not coming back. _ Dean can feel Sam’s eyes on him from the dining room.  _ Maybe not _ , he thinks sadly, but he grabs the mug anyway and sets it on the counter, just in case.

He’s done this almost every morning for the last ten years.

Sam has never mentioned it, just quietly puts it back each night before he goes to bed.

//

Later, around the bonfire in their backyard, Sam lifts his beer to the air and declares - “to Jack!”

A chorus of “to Jack” rises cheerfully into the night air, and as they’re wiping their mouths onto the backs of their hands for any errant drops of alcohol, Jack meekly adds - “to Castiel.”

Dean freezes minutely, keenly aware that everyone is now looking at him. He forces a small smile, reaches over to clap Jack on the shoulder, and responds with a soft - “to Cas.”

They all drink, but Dean finds it hard to swallow all of the sudden. He watches the lightning bugs in the field instead, lets his eyes go unfocused so that they’re just yellow smudges against the darkness.

_ He deserved this just as much as we do. _

The crickets sing. Somewhere a bullfrog croaks.

_ He deserved this, too. _

His knee aches.

//

_ “Dean, you fought for this whole world. You don’t have to fight for me, too.” _

_ The door splinters behind them, and Dean is just wishing he had more time. Five more minutes, so he could explain to Cas why the world without him in it wasn’t one Dean was particularly interested in saving. The Empty reaches hungrily for Cas, and on instinct alone Dean removes the gun from his waistband to fire blindly towards it. _

_ The bullets don’t seem to make contact, or if they do, they have no effect -- of course. Cas has him by the shoulder, begging him to stop, to stand down. Somewhere above his pleading, The Empty’s laughter fills the space like nails on a chalkboard, like a host of angels screaming, and turns its sights towards Dean, instead. _

_ Cas shouts and shoves Dean to one side, but not quickly enough. One of the long black tendrils pierces his leg just above the knee, the pain so absolute and sudden that Dean’s vision briefly whites out; his grasp on consciousness loosening considerably. By the time his awareness slowly starts to return, he’s crumpled against the wall watching in horror as darkness consumes Castiel from head to toe. _

_ The last thing he sees are the blue rings of his eyes, watching Dean in a desolate, desperate sort of way, and his hoarse, trembling voice whisper -- “Dean.” _

_ The next moment he’s gone. _

//

The kids leave two days later.

Sam packs them both a lunch for the road, and Dean makes sure Claire is stocked up on all the hunting supplies she’ll need. They say their goodbyes in the late afternoon, disappearing down the long gravel driveway in Claire’s beat up Plymouth Dodge.

Dean settles in front of the TV afterwards, his bad leg propped up on the coffee table, while Sam quietly works on dinner in the kitchen. It’s his turn, anyway. Dean has a creeping suspicion it’ll be warmed up leftovers from their breakfast the other morning, but he's not going to argue. Who turns down breakfast for dinner?

It’s only an hour or so later that Dean hears the faint sound of gravel crunching under car tires slowly approaching the house. He assumes Jack or Claire must have forgotten something and decided to turn around. Without thinking about it too much, he turns the volume up on the TV a little louder.

A few moments later, there’s a soft, almost hesitant knock at the front door, and Sam rushes off to answer it. For a beat, everything is quiet, and then -- “Dean!” he’s calling back loudly, voice cracking awkwardly like it did when he was a kid. “Dean come here!”

Dean rolls his eyes and pushes himself to his feet, grimacing at the answering twinge in his knee. He rubs at it absently as he limps towards the front door. “What did they forget -- ?”

But the words falter when he rounds the corner -- in fact, the air punches out of him in a single, steady stream -- because it’s not Jack or Claire peeking shyly at him from under one of Sam’s gangly arms, it’s  _ Cas. _

It’s Cas, with his rumpled white shirt, and his crooked tie, and his stupid fucking trench coat. It’s his tired eyes and the soft, almost reverent curve to his mouth as he says -- “Hello, Dean.”

Dean moves an inch at a time, eyes searching Cas’ face, the hands curled into loose fists at his sides for some kind of tell, some kind of confirmation that this is all just a dream. He’s going to wake up in his bed at any second now. He says as much, just behind Sam’s elbow -- “I’ve had this dream before.” His voice is foreign to him, breaking on the individual syllables and pitching up towards the end.

Cas’ face softens then, in increments. “How long have I been gone?”

“Ten years.” Dean tells him, too quickly, heart in his throat. He’s very close to something here, he’s just not quite sure what it is yet.

“Well,” Cas’ eyes flicker up to Dean’s hair briefly -- a small, teasing smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. “That would explain the grey.”

Dean hadn’t realized he’d been holding his breath, but it all leaves him in a sudden, surprised burst of laughter. “You --” He starts, mouth opening, closing, and then opening again. He swallows roughly, runs a hand backwards through his hair, becomes distantly aware that Sam has moved a safe distance away. “-- fucking  _ asshole _ .”

Three things happen then in very quick succession: Dean reaches for him, and Castiel reaches for Dean, and they fall into each other so completely that it almost takes them both to the ground. Dean buries his face deep into Castiel’s shoulder, takes a breath to steady himself, and then another. Cas has his cheek tucked to the top of Dean’s head, his hold on Dean so tight it’s nearly painful.

Dean hears someone talking from what sounds like another room - “How are you here? Is this real? Cas -- oh my God --  _ Cas. _ ”

“The Empty --” Cas tries feebly, but chokes on a small, ruined sound and has to stop to take a breath. “It couldn’t keep me if I was human.”

Dean’s head snaps up to catch Cas’ eye, and he pointedly ignores the tears on Cas’ face, because he knows Castiel is affording him the same courtesy. “What? Wait -- you’re --?”

“Human,” Cas finishes, his breath hot and sweet on Dean’s face. “I fed it my grace and it let me go.” His hands come up to fit to either side of Dean’s jaw. “Time moves differently there, Dean -- I’m so sorry it took me so long.”

And Dean doesn’t even have time to second guess it, to reconsider or feel some perverse sense of guilt -- he just leans forward and presses his lips against Cas’ like a benediction, reveling in the small surprised noise Cas breathes against him. It’s soft and sweet and warm and everything Dean had ever dreamt it would be. It’s perfect, and Cas is here, he’s right here, he’s alive, he’s home, he’s -- “Don’t ever,” Dean mutters against his mouth “do that” a quick press “again.”

He’s earned this, he’s earned this, he’s  _ earned this. _

Cas laughs, and Dean can feel it shake against his chest. He chases the sound with his mouth. “I won’t, I promise.” His hands are in Dean’s hair now -- pulling him, impossibly, closer. “I’m so sorry.”

Sam clears his throat and Dean nearly jumps out of his skin at the reminder that they aren’t actually alone. He doesn’t quite look his brother in the eye, lips still kiss-slicked and swollen, but he sees Sam’s answering grin and knows he has nothing to worry about. In the next second Sam descends upon Castiel and wraps him up in his arms, lifting him a few inches from the ground so that Cas is nearly on his tiptoes. Their combined laughter melts the last bit of tension in Dean’s shoulders, and he quickly paws at a fresh set of tears as they roll down his cheeks.

“God, I’m so glad you’re here man,” Sam is saying, and Dean is just watching the small awkward smile creep onto Cas’ face where it’s buried halfway in Sam’s hair. “We missed you so much.”

“I missed you too, Sam.” Cas says warmly, clapping his shoulder as they pull apart.

There’s a second where they all just kind of stand and stare at each other, open-mouthed and quietly amazed -- afraid that if they move it might somehow shatter the illusion and separate them again. Then Sam is saying something about burning food, and scrambling off to the kitchen in a hurry. Dean clears his throat, scrubs a hand across his face, and thumbs in the direction he disappeared.

“Uh. Coffee?”

“Yes, please.” He wilts a little at the offer, and Dean thinks he’s probably been up driving for a few days, if the darkness under his eyes is any indication.

Dean fills up the yellow mug that’s already sitting there waiting on the counter, and tries not to feel the weight of Cas’ eyes on him. He remembers, distantly, a thrift store in Illinois -- a heated discussion --  _ “Cas, it’s broken.” “I don’t care, Dean. It’s still functional.” _

Heat crawls up his neck, his fingers start to jitter on the handle anxiously. He hasn’t turned to face him yet, but he can  _ hear  _ Cas’ reaction, the soft release of breath, the hitch in his voice.

“You kept it.”

Dean swipes at his nose. “It’s yours.” There’s silence for a moment, and then: “I just -- I thought you might want it -- you know, if you came home someday.” and what isn’t said is somehow louder in the air between them:  _ I always knew you’d come back. I had faith that you’d come back. _

Cas’ hand comes to rest on his shoulder, but Dean still can’t look at him. He thinks if he does he might break. He’s much too close, now. There’s this big, looming feeling in his chest that keeps saying:  _ now, now, now. _ He can feel Cas shaking where they make contact. Or maybe it’s him, he can’t be sure.

Dean is suddenly realizing how long he’s waited for this, how long he’s tried to deny and evade and pretend it would go away. How much time he wasted, and how desperately he wished for it back when Cas was gone. Over 20 years he’s been in love with this dumb bastard, and he’s just kissed him for the first time. He doesn’t want to waste any more of what they have left. “You can stay here, if you want. We have a spare room.”

“Oh, okay.” He steals a glance over his shoulder, catches the confusion bloom on Castiel’s face. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Or --” Dean sucks in a breath, holds it for a little too long. “You could bunk with me,” he shrugs his shoulders, like it doesn’t matter to him at all. The tremor in his voice gives him away.

Cas is silent for so long that Dean is afraid maybe he misread the situation, or maybe Cas just didn’t understand what he was asking him -- but when he turns to look at him, Cas is smiling in that rare, wide, gummy way of his -- and Dean feels a warm, sweeping relief roll through him.

He turns Dean around, knocks their foreheads together lightly and says -- “Yes, Dean,” though it sounds all the world like he’s saying:  _ yes, you idiot -- you absolute buffoon. I have waited for you for so long. I love you so much.  _ “I’d like that.”

And just like that, in a small kitchen in the middle of Kansas, with his brother making dinner just a few feet away and Cas so close they’re practically breathing the same breath -- the war ends.

And just like that, the storm moves away.


End file.
